Résumé…
by verbal acuity
Summary: MurphConn - Murphy can't do it anymore, so he leaves, and Connor's left alone - songfic. slash, twincest.


**RÉSUMÉ…**  
by Collapse Overture  
**Disclaimer**: ...Nope. I still don't own. Sadly.  
**A/N**: This is a songfic to the song 'Résumé…' by Sopor Aeternus. I love the song and I highly recommend listening to it. Well, all of the band's music, really, is amazing. Buuut. I'm sorry if this isn't as good as I wanted it to beee. I tried my best to make it fit the song. And I also tried my best to not make this total and utter crap, but uh...I failed. And I'm also posting this in and during school because I'm bored. Enjoy!

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_Over there that little mountain rises, while some others dissolve into a plain.  
Time redefines itself and falls in sadness, grain by grain …  
"Time, my dear, heals all the wounds," the two-tongues echoes seem to say.  
But nothing, nothing changes here, this pain remains and will not go away._

The Saints split up. Murphy got scared, claimed he didn't want to sin any longer, and left. Connor couldn't do it any more. He needed Murphy. Murphy was his rock in a rough storm, his calm after the storm, and his heart…but he had left and Connor was alone.

Alone. That word all his life had meant nothing to him because he had Murphy, but now, without Murphy, what else was he but alone?

"Murph, why th'fuck would ye do this ta me?" he found himself muttering aloud.

In the apartment—the rugged, cold apartment that Connor always loved returning to because of his brother—he sat on the couch, staring at the empty space next to him. Why hadn't he gone after Murphy? It would have been easy to follow him; Murphy had been too distracted to notice, after all. But he hadn't and that was what mattered. And now he was facing the consequences of his actions…without Murphy.

"Murphy…"

_"I went weak, as I grew old, and time itself has made me slow …  
And as I close my eyes in sadness, a thousand seasons come and go …"_

It had been a month since Murphy left him. A month of utter agony. Murphy was still gone, nowhere to even be seen, and Connor hadn't eaten in over two weeks. The only movements that he had made were few bathroom trips, messes to make, alcohol to smash, and bed to be crushed. Once every three days, he'd make his way to his bed, strip the sheets from it, and lay on the old mattress just to prove to himself that he was still alive, as much as he really didn't want to be any more.

'Maybe Murphy's right,' Connor thought begrudgingly as he lay on his brother's mattress, taking in the scent that still emitted from it. The scent was totally Murphy and Connor could almost imagine that he was there, right next to him. But he wasn't…and Connor was still alone.

It felt as if he hadn't slept in years; the world was passing by him and he didn't even care. He hadn't seen the light of day since the morning he had gone to get cigarettes, only to come home to Murphy walking out the door with a muttered: 'I can't, Conn, I can't.'

Somehow—some way—Connor kept his hopes high—his faith in God and his brother—that his brother would return.

With that thought running through Connor's head, the blond fell into a fast sleep. He slept until the next morning hoping to everything Holy that Murphy would be there, next to him, when he woke up.

_Might enough to cover all and also cruel enough to reveal,  
But all the wounds and scars he carries neither force nor kiss can ever heal._

Connor woke abruptly, body covered in sweat and he panted. His fingers and knuckles, now white as a ghost, gripped tight to the sides of the mattress—Murphy's mattress. Murphy.

"Fuckin' shit," he groaned and reached his clammy right hand to fist in his blond hair tightly, yanking and pulling every which way in hopes of calming himself down. There was still no Murphy—no good ol' Murphy to grin mischievously and make him smile. Nothing to keep him calm anymore.

Then he remembered his cigarettes; the pack of cigarettes he bought _that_ morning for him and his brother. The pack wasn't even opened yet—not a single cigarette smoked—and now he found himself staring at it as it sat on the table in the centre of the room. They beckoned to him; that lovely nicotine that substituted for Murphy when the darker-haired twin went out shopping for whatever he claimed to need.

But the question was not of will—the question was: would that still work, even now, after he's so abruptly lost his brother?

He would give anything for Murphy. He'd—not so gladly as begrudgingly—give up full kisses and return to hand kisses like the old days. He'd give up the one sin they both had approved of—until now, apparently—and shared just to have his brother, his partner, his most important person at his side. But for that to happen, Murphy would have to accept the fate that Connor was willing to uphold. He loved his brother to the point that he needed him nearby to live, to _breathe_. Murphy had been his everything.

"Murphy, _fuck_, come back. _Please_."

_Time heals nothing, nothing, nothing …  
Spitefully turns away and laughs.  
Leaves you half-broken and in defiance is only added another scar …_

A month and a half gone by, but it didn't feel like that to Connor. After the fifth week of no Murphy, Connor had taken to committing another sin—a sin by the Book o' the Irish—he smashed every bottle of alcohol in the apartment that was now, apparently, only Connor's. Each hand gripped the neck of a broken bottle and he looked down at the shattered glass on the floor, the alcohol dripping and flowing down the wall like a river. Dropping one of the broken bottles, he reached his hand to touch the liquid, only to see its color change to that of a deep red as it continued to flow downward.

"Shite…"

Biting his bottom lip, he backed up slightly and leaned his back against a dry part of the wall and slid down, mimicking the liquid's flow as his eyes watched it pool with his blood at the junction where the floor met the wall. Now he regretted smashing the alcohol—he needed it for the pain in his hands. But he didn't bother moving to clean up his wounds or the floor and wall. He didn't care enough to; Murphy wasn't around to scold him for the mess anyway.

_Call it 'blind' how he is writhing, counting hours, centuries …  
The pain it grows and glows in tides, unable to vanish, unwilling to cease …_

Two fucking months—no call, no letter, no Murphy—no fucking nothing. He was far beyond the state of confusion and sadness; the pain was killing and he had no nothing to numb it into submission, if only for a short time. It didn't go away and it didn't lessen. But he had learned. he had to fight to keep living. If Murphy returned to see his twin brother dead in a pool of blood on the old, creaky floors of their run-down apartment, the dark-haired one would lose it and slowly fade until he died. Connor did not want that; as much as Murphy had hurt him the past two months, he still wanted the best for his 'little' brother, and if it was without Connor, then so be it.

But now he was pissed. The bottle-cuts on his hands and arms from his fit of destructive rage burned as they scabbed. Connor didn't wash them. He just sat there and let them bleed until they stopped and scabbed. The dried blood on his hands crusted and began to peel and chip off as he moved and flexed his fingers to feel. The alcohol and blood on the wall and floor left stains that he was sure wouldn't disappear even if he tried his best to wash them off.

"O, fuck me," he moaned and stood up to get away from the room—he couldn't stare at the blood any more. If Murphy had been around, he would have gripped tight to Connor's wrists—not even bothering to evade the cuts—and dragged him to the bathroom to clean properly. The blond brother snickered at that; a worried Murphy running anxiously around the room for a towel and something to clean and disinfect the wound. Oh how he would have paid to see that again, if only once more.

Murphy would glare scoldingly at Connor as he wrapped the wounds, poke him in the forehead for smashing the alcohol, then take him out to McGinty's for a good few hours to make up. They would listen to Doc go on with his mix-and-matching to try to fit in out of Ireland and fail miserably. And they would laugh; laugh as if Murphy had never walked out on Connor in the first time for those two wretched months.

_Time heals nothing, nothing, nothing …  
Pushes 'till we're diving into different flesh.  
Time heals nothing, nothing, nothing—Petrified with some unnameable shame …_

He wondered if Doc had seen Murphy. He wondered if Doc was worried about him and his brother. Surely, Murphy wouldn't go to McGinty's after he'd left—it was a block away from their apartment and he'd risk seeing Connor around. Murphy wasn't that dumb, and Connor knew that well, but damn it, he missed his brother.

"Fuck, Murph, why th'fuck're ye doin' this ta me, ya asshole? _Fuck_!"

And the tears came. In that entire nine weeks that Connor had been without his brother, without his other half, his Murphy, he hadn't cried once. He didn't dare let the tears fall…until now. They rushed down his face like a river heading for a waterfall and he couldn't stop them even if he tried. It all finally began to sink in that he'd lost his brother quite possibly for good. He was terrified that something had happened to his twin—terrified that maybe, just maybe, being mad was a mistake because Murphy could have been hurt, calling for help somewhere out there—but Murphy didn't cry for help; he always left the cryin'…fer Connor.

Connor's fists clenched tightly, short fingernails digging into his slowly healing scabs, causing them to bleed again. Where the fuck was Murphy?

_"Time's fingers claw, I am losing hold."  
They say: "There is no hope for you on earth—time either still or maybe rushing—in any case it will always turn out worse…"  
Time is fleeting, time stands still; it stops for no one and you are trapped within.  
But I do dream of the light—You're only falling back into the left-hand side …_

Eleven weeks now, Murphy's been gone, and Connor's been alone. Each night Connor is without Murphy, he slowly falls backwards and gets weaker. His eyes, heavy, droop closed as he slumps against the wall, sliding to the floor as his body weakens from lack of nutrition. His stomach hurts, begs for food—something to eat, to drink, to calm and ease the pain—but he doesn't feel the hunger any more. It is all a dull thump, a numbness much like dying.

From the lack of sun, he's become pale, dark circles adorning his eyes in contrast to the whiteness of his usually sun-kissed skin. Fuck if he didn't die right there, but his heart still beat for Murphy and Murphy alone. Connor's heart refused to stop beating until Murphy's did, too. Brothers born together live together. Brothers live together die together. Murphy was living, Connor was living, too, no matter what.

"Murph…y'know I'll always fergive ye…right?" Connor whispered to nothing in particular. He hoped in some way that Murphy would hear him and come back. He hadn't been to Church since just before _that_ day and he hadn't been taking good care of himself. He could literally feel the wrath that would soon be forced upon him—he would go to Hell, he knew that now. All his sins he'd committed with his own brother wouldn't go unnoticed or overlooked. But now he'd face it all alone. Murphy had given it up and left while Connor sat in solitude, sulking about his loss. Connor would go alone and he hated that fact.

_"Connor, let's go ta Hell tagether. Just us."_

He remembered Murphy's words clearly and they killed him even now. That 'forever' was all a lie and Connor realized that now. But his heart still only beated for Murphy. Nothing would change that. Murphy dies, Connor dies, whether Murphy liked that or not.

_"How I wish that I was dead…and rest in final peace …"_

Slowly, his eyes slipped closed and he lied on his side against the blood-stained wall. He would wait for Murphy. A brother's love is…a brother's love. And Connor loved Murphy more than anything. The bond they shared stretched deeper than blood and Connor would have done anything for Murphy…to have Murphy back. But for now, he needed to sleep. To get his brother back, he'd need rest and a whole lot o' drinkin' to relieve the pain and agony of a loss.

As he slept, he dreamt of the two of them together, loving in a way that only brother's that shared a twin bond would. Connor was willing to give it all up. He'd fight for Boston with his brother to kill all the evil men and he'd forfeit their stronger connection as lovers to keep his darker-haired, paler twin around. It's better to have love and lost than to never have loved at all…and he'd rather deal with the awkward connection than not have it at all.

'Come back, Murph…I need ye.'

_"But even the luxury of death can't cure the wounds…that time cannot heal…"_

Arms wrapped tightly around the blond brother's waist and he could only think that it was a dream; it wasn't real. Murphy wasn't back, he was still alone and asleep against the uncomfortable wall.

He groaned as he felt himself being lifted. Cold hands tapped his cheek gently and his eyes snapped open abruptly as he heard bubbly words that he couldn't understand—he couldn't quite place who the voice was coming from; it was familiar, yet unfamiliar like he hadn't heard it in a while. His vision blacked for a few moments as the light hit his irises. "…Fuck. Turn the fuckin'—" He was cut off by what he figured was a finger to his lips. Who the fuck dared?

"What th'fuck're ye doin', ya fuckin' idjit! Ye're fuckin' covered in blood, thin as a fuckin' twig, an' asleep on tha floor! Get. up!" Harsh hands gripped his bare arms and dragged him to the bed. "Ye don' weigh a fuckin' thing, ya cocksucker!" Those same fingers gently hit his cheeks again and Connor's eyes finally opened. "Connor," his voice suddenly dropped to a concerned tone. "Conn, look at me…please."

The blue irises sought the room for something to lock onto, then, finally, they found and locked on their identical twin's. "Murphy…ye're here," he muttered tiredly, face leaning into the now soft caresses of his brother's pale hand that now rivaled his own paling skin. "Murph."

Strong arms slunk around his shoulders and pulled him into a calming, emotional embrace. Connor weakly buried his face in his darker brother's neck, sobbing into the flesh. After a beat, Murphy spoke: "Ye're such a fuckin' idjit! Why'd ya fuckin' do this ta yerself, ya asshole! So fuckin' stupid! Fuck!" As he spoke, his grip on Connor tightened, refusing to let go. Against Murphy's throat, Connor muttered an apology, eyes slipping back closed. "Conn, don' apologize."

"Why'd ya leave?" Connor asked finally, fingers gripping tight to Murphy's shirt collar.

At the question, the dark-haired twin gave a sigh and pulled away slightly, grasping his brother's chin and silently forcing him to open his eyes and see him, _really_ see him.

"Conn, ta be honest…I was scared. I didn' wanta anymore, Conn. I was afraid something'd happen, ya know? It's riveting an', at tha same time, fuckin' frightenin' as hell ta even think abou' gettin' caught. S'like…when we kill fer God. If we get caught, like, actually put behind fuckin' bars fer killin' fer good, caught, we could be in trouble. Fuck, Conn, it gets ta ya, ya know?"

Connor nodded as a response. This was the most Connor had heard Murphy speak in months and it felt fucking _good_ to hear that voice.

Finally, Connor was able to speak again. "If ye…if ye don' wanta do this anymore, Murph…'m willin' ta, y'know, give it up fer ya. S'long as ye're here, I can—"

He was unable to finish his sentence as warm lips came into contact with his own, silencing him without a problem. It had been so long since they'd done that that Connor felt himself melt and weaken in his brother's arms. Then, finally, after Murphy was sure Connor had lost all will to speak, he pulled away and grinned down at his blond twin.

"Connor," he began, twining his fingers into the blond hair that fell before Connor's eyes, obscuring his vision of those beautiful blue irises. "Let's go ta Hell tagether. Just us." And with that, their lips locked back together, only parting for much needed air when the time came. The room darkened without their noticing and time went by without them—they remained still, moving in calm, slow motion together to regain their lost time. Connor had Murphy and Murphy had Connor. No one would come between them.

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**Hope you enjoyed. Please review! I tried my best.**


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